Vincere vel cadere
by Dame de coeur
Summary: They had no choice : they had to vanquish or fall. Such was the life of the Sarmatian knights. Random very short oneshots about our favourite knights and other characters. May contain some OCs.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer :**** Nothing you recognize belong to me.**

**AN :**** I often have ideas for drabbles in the KA fandom. I will put them here !**

_**The Blood On His Hands**_

He was staring at the blood on his hands. This blood had once belonged to a breathing boy, not much older than himself. His first _human_ kill.

Those hands, which had often played with his little sister, which had sometimes helped his ailing aunt, had now killed. Killing was his duty, to protect his brothers-in-arms and the empire his people has sworn to searve. He was bound to mercilessly end others' life.

Then why had this victory such a bitter taste ? And why did he still see blood on his hands, even after he had washed them again and again ?


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer : See chapter 1.**

**Missing**

Vanora and some other girls whose name he did not know spoke quietly to Eirwen. The maiden's face was serene but absent, and her gaze was empty ; the laughing sparkles usually dancing in her eyes had been extinguished by loss and grief.

The tavern was eery in a way : most of the Sarmatian knights were missing, or in a drunken stupor. Even the few remaining patrons still conscious were unusually quiet.

Jols closed his eyes. How he longed to hear laughter and to listen to playful teasing... But laughter would not echo in Badon Fort this night ; this night belonged to gloom and mourning.

_Percival..._ Jols thought... _How we all miss you, you and your laughter..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to the kind people who have reviewed, I treasure each review I get ^^**

**Disclaimer : See chapter 1.**

_**Inish**_

_Inish…_ Dagonet called them. And inish they were... Though they were flesh and blood, Gawain and his brother-in arms never heard them before they unleashed hell.

Their footsteps were light and fast, their skin cold and blue, they appeared and disappeared as quickly as the fog when it fell on the fort. And with them they brought fear. And death. They were ghosts.

He hated them for it.

The fog was heavy, too heavy. All Gawain could see was a white curtain he wanted to claw at and the faint shadows of the mocking trees he wanted to challenge. Wainting... he was fed up with waiting...

They were here. They had to be. And Gawain, as his brothers-in-arms, was waiting for them.

Waiting for death.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**** : See chapter 1.**

**When I read Admiral von Cha-Cha's (greetings to her, btw ^^) drabble about Guinevere, this just... appeared in my mind, I had to write it. It is a kind of response to her OS then.**

**_Steel_**

Sometimes it hurt to see his daughter, his dear Guinevere, so cold, cloaked in stone like the Roman statues his people hated so.

He hid his true self behind the harsh steel of his eyes and the grey mystery he kept around himself. His own people, so wild and proud, feared him. But they were a difficult people, not easy to unite, and only fear could sometimes deter the most ambitious.

He was like his beloved island: he surrounded himself with grey mist, yet his heart was so alive and green! And it was too often splashed with the vivid redness of anger and bloodlust when he saw the disasters Romans brought his people. His proud people, who would never be cowed.

It only strenghthened his steely façade.


	5. A hero's oath

**I'm so sorry for the time I took to update, but well, between exams and the white page syndrome…**

**Here is the new instalment ; it's not really a drabble, it's a bit longer. Not my favourite but... I hope you'll like it.**

**Thank you so much to my reviewvers, they're gems !**

**Disclaimer :**** See chapter one.**

**A Hero's oath**

Not so long ago, Gilly had asked his father to learn how to fight. How to really fight, in a gruesome and violent world where your life could so easily be wiped out.

Gilly was an impatient and petulant child. He was also quite curious, but his interest usually did not last long; most recently, his aunt Alis, so glad to learn her nephew had shown curiosity in learning basic knowledge about plants, had planned lessons and lessons for days; however Gilly had eventually quickly lost any interest. It had been the same with falconry, and the list went on and on.

Thus, everyone had be surprised to notice that Gilly had been paying attention for so long, and despite the harshness of the lessons (Bors, though a loving father, was not known for showing mercy or delicacy), he never complained.

For Gilly indeed, learning how to fight was much more than a passing hobby; it was vital. And when things got tough, he thought about Eluned. Young Eluned, pretty Eluned. Poor Eluned. Eluned the quiet barmaid who, a few months earlier, had been beaten to death by a drunken Roman soldier. A sad story, everyone agreed.

Gilly had not spoken to anyone about it, but he had witnessed it. He had heard Eluned's cries, he had seen her tears and her blood mixed with dust. But he had fled, driven away by terror and survival.

And the nagging guilt remained. The guilt to have failed. He had left Eluned to die after all, hadn't he ? But _never again_ would he fail. And _never again_ would he run or be a coward. _Never again _did he want to feel guilt.


	6. Not my God

**AN : Set during the movie, some time after the quarrel between Arthur and Lancelot (the night before they leave for their last mission). The title is a reference to Lancelot's yell 'Not my god!' after he kills the crazy monk. As usual, thanks to those who read or review!**

**Not my God**

Sometimes, Lancelot did not understand Arthur.

Oh, he knew him better than most; even better than most knights. And he understood a lot. In a way, he understood Arthur's choice to deny his Woad ancestry, the savages had after all killed his own mother when he was but a child.

But he could not understand why Arthur spent so much time praying to the Christians' God.

Oh, a long time ago, he had tried to understand. He had listened to Angharad who had loved so much to speak about her dear God, and he had listened to Arthur, the few times his friend had tried to explain.

_Angharad, his gentle, naive angel_. She had been a sweet but weak girl. He could still remember her youthful pallid face, her soft eyes – so old! – and her hushed voice filled with wonderment and hope when she had spoken about her God. How she had loved Him, and how her face had been smiling when she had explained that her God was everybody's God, that He was loving and protecting and forgiving.

So loving and protecting and forgiving that He had let Angharad suffer for years until she had passed away, like a bright candle blown out by a gust of wind. The wind of illness.

How Lancelot had yelled at that God! A God who abandoned even those who loved Him above all else and who deserved nothing more than love and light.

Angharad's God was Arthur's God also. And Arthur had loved Angharad too. But still, Arthur had never stopped praying and _confiding_ _in_ that cruel God!

Well, he wasn't Lancelot's God.

Sometimes, Lancelot did not understand Arthur.

**AN bis :** **I hope I succeeded in describing Lancelot's bitterness (it is not how I feel about religion).**


	7. Remember

**AN :**** After a long absence… I'm back! Thanks to the wonderful people who review! :)**

**Remember**

Tristan was a hard man.

The people he had loved or appreciated at one point in his life were quite scarce. There were Arthur and his brothers-in-arms, he assumed (although he would never admit it out loud) and, most of all, his father.

His father, so wise and so proud, who had seldom spoken, and whose words had been drunk by his loving son…

His father's last words sometimes haunted him. 'Remember' his father had said, before the Romans had taken Tristan away… Remember who he was, remember where he came from…

Nonetheless, there were times when Tristan forgot. There were times when he even forgot he was a _man_…

Sometimes, when he was alone with his hawk and his horse, the call of the hunt sang in his blood. Then, he became one with the forest, one with his mount, one with his prey; and he forgot everything that wasn't his prey's fearful eyes, the rustling leaves, or the shrill warning of his hawk. He became a wolf driven by a thirst for blood.

Fortunately, the man eventually always came back…

But Tristan was afraid. Afraid to lose himself, afraid not to remember.


End file.
